


Revelations

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, any reason you want, don't try to work out where we are in plot, fluffmaster5000, it'll hurt your head, just think Robb and the Martells have made an alliance because of REASONS, messy timelines, now with Ellaria/Sansa implications, unexplained AU alliances, whatever floats your boat, why wouldn't I???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3496481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She has night terrors. It relaxes her to sleep where I am, and as I am needed at my desk most nights, she’s taken to sleeping in the armchair. An innocent notion, I assure you, King Robb.”</p><p>Now with BONUS CHAPTER TWO!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silberias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/gifts).



> Major shout out to Silberias for being such an awesome, vocal part of the Oberyn/Sansa shipping community. If you haven't checked out the awesomeness of Sanberyn (plus Ellaria)--go do it! What are you waiting for?? ALL THE FEELS AWAIT YOU.
> 
> For the underage tag, I honestly don't know what age I've envisioned her at for this. Nothing outrageously young. You can put her at whatever age you like, how's that.
> 
> Also I'm sorry that the logic to a Martell/Stark alliance is so wishy-washy in this. I'm too tired to make it more realistic. Maybe I'll edit at a later date. Be gentle!

It had been a long day.

It had been such a long, exhausting day that it was all Robb Stark could do to walk in a straight line from his council to the tent harboring one of his best fighters. _His_ best fighter was perhaps a misnomer for a title; the man was anything but his. An ally, yes. Married into the family in a matter of mere months. Wed to the most beautiful woman in the north. But certainly not Robb’s bannerman, not on his own volition.

But he was loyal, Robb didn’t doubt it. The man fought for Robb’s cause valiantly, and for that his men would do the same. So the King in the North owed him a great deal already, his sister’s situation notwithstanding.

He didn’t know what to think about owing a cunning man such as Oberyn Martell so much as a silver stag.

It was a thought which plagued his mind constantly, the wondering what Prince Oberyn would ask for in return. The Martells had been good thus far, inserting themselves quietly into the affairs of the north, offering men to accompany their new princess’ cause. And all which was asked for in payment was loyalty.

_That should a Martell come to seat the Iron Throne, you will support us in our reign._

It seemed an easy enough exchange, though it was a perplexing one. For one the Martells were known to avoid politics of the other six kingdoms, and they kept very much to themselves. Had done so for years. For another, as far as Robb could tell—or any of his eyes and ears—there were no attempts by the Viper’s greater family to overthrow the inbred bastards, nor to wed Arianne or one of her brothers to Tommen or Myrcella respectively. It was once a match, Robb knew, for Myrcella to wed Trystane, but that was long gone, and the boy, Quentyn’s whereabouts were unknown to the Stark King.

For the most part there was little time to dwell on the matters of the far south. It didn’t truly concern Robb at the present time, but also it wasn’t his domain. He would vouch for any place the Martell family took, should they acquire the Iron Throne, but he had no intention of bleeding for them to get there. Whatever plots they had, let them keep it. So long as his men may go home one day soon.

But those thoughts weren’t what sent him to the side of the Red Viper, nor did he plan on speaking them aloud any time soon. No, what Robb wanted was advice more than anything. He grew weary of the way his men eyed Jeyne Westerling, he grew weary of the way Jeyne eyed Greywind. And now he had isolated his mother, and his men were quick to judge, there were few in the vicinity who were truly qualified to give battle tactic advice, fewer still whom he was inclined to listen to at the moment.

The Red Viper had plenty of battle tactic to offer, he thought. Prince Doran would be better still, of course, but given the rumors (vague and insubstantial as they were) his health didn’t allow him to travel so far, let alone outside of Dorne.

The tent Oberyn was given was a generous size, and divided into three compartments. The first, and largest, was to act as a writing space, where the Viper could draft and send letters, mull over tactics, read up on the climate of the north. He was, as was just stated, no Doran Martell, who Robb was told loved reading as well as any Maester could, but he was intelligent and devoted, and had a lot of free time on his hands as well. (There were very few brothels for miles in any direction).

The second room was his own room, and Robb couldn’t say either way how it looked. He only knew his was the second because his wife’s was last, and she had told Robb this herself. It was the last room, and farthest from the entrance. Short of killing the guards outside her end of the tent and cutting a hole in the heavy fabric where she slept, there would be no getting in or out of their tent without surpassing Oberyn Martell, and the man seemed very doubtful anyone would ever do either option.

He walked in without thinking, really, else he would have bat at the flap a few times out of courtesy. But of course, he was King, and he had the right to go where he pleased—short of another lady’s bedroom, perhaps. It wasn’t truly in his nature to simply enter without warning, at any given rate, but Robb was _quite_ tired and his manners were deplorable when his mind turned to mush, such as it was then.

“Prince Oberyn, forgive me,” Robb began, realizing only a second too late that he hadn’t asked to enter. The man he sought out was at a makeshift desk, scrolls of parchment scattered about amongst ink and quills and wax and candles. The candles, he noted, were tucked away from the paper in an act of practicality. His wife’s doing, Robb didn’t doubt.

The man was seated with his side bare to the door, his left half on perfect display. He was dressed in northern clothes, unlike any Robb had seen him wear when he first arrived. Practicality had dictated that choice, too, he didn’t doubt, since the Red Viper appeared to be very unwilling to part himself from his Dornish heritage. From the wine he brought, to the clothes he kept, to the weapons he wielded, the second prince was everything that resembled Dorne.

Robb wondered if Oberyn ever looked at _him_ and saw the same thing of the north in him.

Oberyn didn’t give any indication that he’d noticed the arrival of the King of the North for several minutes, finishing his letter meticulously. Robb didn’t take his eyes off the man, and grew steadily more irritated and more unsettled. Oberyn was excellent at making someone feel as though they ought to be swallowed by the earth for the sake of everyone else, and he could do it without a single glance or word. The northern pride Starks were famous for ran through Robb’s veins as well as it had done for any Lord of Winterfell, but at the moment he was feeling exceedingly childish as he waited his turn to speak.

At last, at long last, the Red Viper set aside his quill with hands stained with ink, and leaned back, allowing a low groan as he stretched and drew his arms overhead.

“Your Grace,” he drawled, sounding quite bored. “Forgive me, I find it quite unbearable to write for long periods of time. It is easier if I can write unstopped til finished, then not again for a day or so.” He rose to his feet with all the sensual elegance of a serpent, and walked to the table propped in the far corner, along the wall of the divider between his bedroom and the sitting room.

“Of course,” Robb grumbled, and allowed himself the leisure of following the Prince of Dorne, wordlessly grabbing a spare wine goblet and holding it out for Oberyn to fill, as he was filling one for himself. “It has been a long day,” said Robb, by means of explanation. Oberyn didn’t chastise, but hummed in obnoxious sympathy, and rested a hipbone up against the table holding the wine. His hand swirled the sour red contemplatively, his gaze far away and inward at the same time.

“Might we sit down?” Robb tried not to sound as irritated as he felt, but he really was fatigued, and courtesy dictated Oberyn offer him a chair any second now.

But the Red Viper merely smiled wryly and shook his head. “Alas, my recliner is quite taken up by a greedy little wolf.”

Robb wheeled around on his heel to look to the opposite corner of the room where, lo and behold, there _was_ a cushioned recliner, big enough for a grown man to lay back comfortably on, and sprawled out daintily on her side was none other than Oberyn’s young wife, Robb’s eldest sister. Sansa Stark. _Martell,_ he corrected himself quickly, though he was certain he’d never grow used to the sound of Martell replacing a Stark name.

_At least it is not Lannister, or Baratheon._

No sooner had Robb glimpsed his sister than he did turn away out of embarrassment and respect. She was fast asleep, yes, but she was wearing nothing but a shift, and her furs had slipped about her so her arms were uncovered and the curve of her hip was visible through the white linens.

“Gods!” Robb swiveled back around to cut Oberyn an angry glare. “You could have warned me,” he hissed, although he _had_ in fact entered without permission.

Oberyn chuckled good-naturedly. Robb knew well-enough to tell that it was an act, but it was a good one anyways. Were he even slightly younger and more naïve, he’d have been quite awestruck by the Red Viper and all his prowling glory. He very nearly was, anyways.

“She is fully clothed, and fast asleep. Your sister sleeps poorly enough that I don’t wish to interrupt whatever slumber she might acquire, and I might remind you, you never knocked.” Oberyn took a long drink of his glass and let out a satisfied sigh, tilting his head in consideration at his bride, Sansa Martell.

“It could have been any man who entered!” Robb continued, floored by his lack of consideration for Sansa’s propriety. “They might have seen her…seen her…”

“Asleep? Without those stifling dresses? A lucky man, I assure you,” the Red Viper dared to say it with a cheeky grin from over his goblet.

“You think my sister’s honor a jape, my prince?”

Oberyn shook his head. “No. Do you think your bannermen likely to enter my quarters without permission, _Your Grace?”_ Ah, there was that desire to be swallowed by the earth. Robb grimaced and hid it with a long sip of wine. He hadn’t had the stomach for it before going to war, but after his father was… _executed,_ it was sometimes the only thing which could help put him to sleep.

“I do not. But in event of emergency—”

“In event of emergency, he or she could leave a message with my attendant, who could come to find me thereafter. As I’m sure Daemon told _you_. So tell me, King of the North, what is it that brings you to my tent? Other than concern for your sister’s… _propriety.”_

Truly flustered, Robb fought for the upper hand by stalling. He looked over his shoulder once more to the woman reclined in the long seat and frowned pensively. Oberyn had been watching his line of sight and, on seeing his frown, spoke up.

“She has night terrors. I trust I needn’t tell you what of.” Robb shook his head, guilt threatening to consume him once more. Too long. He had left his sister in the clutches of the Lannisters for far too long and it ate at him like a flesh-eating insect. “It relaxes her to sleep where I am, and as I am needed at my desk most nights, she’s taken to sleeping in the armchair. An innocent notion, I assure you.”

“I know.” And Robb did, despite the Viper’s reputation, trust that he was telling the truth. Save for the initial bedding, Sansa had not been taken in bed (or anywhere else) by Oberyn since. Only once to make the marriage irrefutable. The gesture of trust, innate and profound, made Robb think deeply before speaking his next thoughts aloud. “Does she have trouble sleeping even when you are…present?”

“Sometimes,” he shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “She’ll live. And she won’t come to any further harm. That is all that truly matters; her terrors can be dealt with on a nightly basis, if need be.”

“Forever?”

“You do not mean to suggest I would put your sister aside, do you?” Oberyn, as usual, didn’t look offended in the slightest, but there is a mild affront to his tone that tells Robb to tread lightly.

“No,” said Robb, suitably chastised. Gods, he did hate talking to the Viper most days. His _good-brother,_ of all things. He could have never predicted such a turn in his life. Then again, he couldn’t have predicted many things which had occurred in his recent past, Oberyn’s involvement least of all.

The conversation was halted when, without warning, a tiny cry rose up in the tent, mewling and plaintive. It took Robb a second to place the source; it took Oberyn no time whatsoever.

The man was speaking lowly before he’d even reached Sansa’s side. “There now, lovely girl. Shh…” Robb’s eyes averted quickly, not before he caught sight of long, dark hands reaching down to gently stroke his sister’s shining forehead, to bend his mouth to her temple.

“Oberyn…” Sansa murmured, loud enough to Robb to hear with some difficulty. She either kept her eyes closed or she couldn’t see him due to Oberyn’s close proximity to her. “O…”

“I’m here,” he began stroking her hair. It was unnaturally addicting to watch, though it was as uncomfortable as it was reassuring. Robb had worried, between everything else, that Sansa was left in unsafe hands even now, after being put through so much. She had promised him repeatedly that her husband treated her well, and she would hear nothing of settlements or attempts to dissolve the union. In fact, the one time he’d tried, she had gone running to Oberyn at once. To which the Prince of Dorne had kindly but firmly set him straight, and requested that the pair be left alone in their marriage.

“I was not the man you envisioned as your good-brother,” Oberyn had said somberly. “But I am who you have, nonetheless. For so long as she wants me.”

Robb hadn’t tried since.

It was clear now that Sansa had told the truth when she said she was happy with Oberyn. Strange that he should find reassurance in her night terrors… But there was no mistaking the way she sleepily reached out for Oberyn, the way she relaxed and softened under his presence.

“What are you doing waking up so late, hmm? My little wolf.” Oberyn pressed a kiss to her head. “Do you wish to sleep in your bed? Sansa?”

“Hmm…no…” she yawned, and curled tightly around the hand he’d offered her, drawing it into her chest like a child holds a favored toy. “Stay.”

“Unfortunately I have need of that hand,” Oberyn replied, voice ringed heavily with amusement. The tone was lost on her, though, and she didn’t so much as twitch at his words. “You are welcome to use them any way you please when I’ve finished.”

Well, that was something Robb rather wished he could unhear.

Carefully now, the Viper of Dorne untangled his hands and drew back his limbs, sliding back into an upright position. Sansa was at peace once more, her face sweetly relaxed and pretty as a portrait. Gratitude and admiration seeped into Robb’s heart, though he half-wished it would not. Owing the Viper… No, that was not a thing he took pleasure in at all. But perhaps for the sake of Sansa, he would accept it. Accept that the Prince of Dorne had done what he could not ( _what he had chosen not)_ to do. That he had saved Sansa before it was truly too late.

Words of thanks were on his lips, _thank you_ and a good night because Robb realized he very well may be too tired for this conversation, and maybe it could wait until the morning. But when the man turned to face Robb, Oberyn spoke without any preamble, confident and assured and very much alert.

“Now then,” Oberyn said, head tilted in plain deferral. “What did you have to ask me, Your Grace?”


	2. Observations in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn takes a moment to watch, and comes to some mind-blowing realizations of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely did not expect this "oneshot" to be as well-received as it was. Ahem. Thank you all very kindly. 
> 
> And I firmly believe such lovely reviews (and Silberias' continued awesomeness) should be rewarded. Ergo *waves this at you all* here you go. 
> 
> Just a note about plot/setting: so the war is mostly/sorta over, the North is its own thing, Robb isn't interfering in the South, and the Martells keep their plans close and their mouths shut. Sansa and Oberyn have been married for, like, a year. 
> 
> Oh, and prior to coming north, Oberyn got Sansa out of KL with the help of Ellaria. So Sansa and Ellaria have, in fact, met before, and spent time together to boot. (I love Ellaria so much--I couldn't leave her out! It would be BLASPHEMY, I tell you!)
> 
> Yeah, wow sorry about all that. Probably should have worked that info somewhere into the story (and I kinda did, but I wanted to make it clear beforehand).
> 
> Anyways. Thanks for checking it out. Hugs and kisses for you all. 
> 
> And oh yeah, Catelyn POV for reasons. REASONS.

Sansa Stark was never a scatter-brained child. Sweet and innocent, perhaps, but never one to wander in her lessons, not even in her mind. She had dreams, but of course she did. But she was also a singularly focused child, and quite accomplished when she chose to be.

So it was downright startling when she showed up for her breakfast with Catelyn and the other ladies nearly forty minutes overdue.

“Forgive me, Mother,” Sansa said, out of breath at the door to her solar. Since reaching Riverrun, Catelyn had reclaimed her old chambers, and frequently hosted her son’s new wife, formerly Jeyne Westerling, as well as Jeyne’s mother. Catelyn, for the record, was about as fond of her son’s new wife as she was his good-mother, and spending lengthy periods of time with either, although bearable, was unpleasant to put it mildly. And so she did look very forward to Sansa being there— _not at all_ for the fact that Sansa seemingly felt distrust of both Westerling women. No, not at all. Such would be petty and ought to be discouraged at once.

At any rate, Catelyn was surprised at her daughter’s late arrival, for the sake that she was always properly on time, if nothing else.

“Lady Westerling, Your Grace,” Sansa nodded to each woman, curtseyed to their _queen._ Catelyn barely fought back the grimace each time decorum required her to greet Jeyne as anything more than the up-jumped lady she was.

“Sweet sister, how many times have I begged you call me Jeyne?” Robb’s wife rose to her feet, smiling beautifully at Catelyn’s daughter. Two hands outstretched for Sansa, Jeyne’s fine-boned fingers, and curled around her wrists lightly. Most had learned since Sansa’s return north not to embrace her, even in private. Not even Catelyn could hold her without giving Sansa proper warning anymore.

“You are my queen,” Sansa returned the smile stiffly and discreetly pulled herself out of Jeyne’s clutches. “I fear you may have to ask once more.”

“Princess Sansa,” Lady Westerling said regally. The woman, at least, knew her place around Catelyn’s daughter, even if she didn’t know so around Cat herself. Lady Westerling frequently forgot whether she or her daughter was Queen in the North, and worse still forgot who was _not._

“Please forgive my lateness,” Sansa took her turn nodding at each of them, settling in her chair. Brienne, having opened the door for Sansa, let it swing shut gently once more, nodding politely at Catelyn as she did. “I fear I retired late last night, and such kept me in bed late this morning.”

“Of course, Princess.”

“There’s no need to apologize, sister.” Sansa pretended not to notice the kind endearments, smiled gratefully at them both, and turned quietly to her meal, an assortment of fresh bread and honey and milk and nuts and fruits.

Meanwhile Catelyn fought the urge to narrow her eyes in suspicion on her daughter, for even though the night’s festivities drew out late, she could have sworn Sansa herself retired early—with her _husband_ no less.

 _Hardly her husband. Her sworn sword, more accurately._ She told herself that whenever thoughts of her daughter’s husband came to mind. In all technicality, Oberyn Martell was Sansa’s lawfully wedded husband, and she his wedded and bedded wife. But it had only been the once, she told herself over and over. Only the once, and really how bad could that have been? He seemed kind. He seemed likely to try and make it… _end_ quickly. He—

Gods, she couldn’t bear thinking about this. Even trying to reassure herself of her daughter’s innocence made her feel ill.

_My girl. My sweet girl._

But she never should have been put in such a mess. None of them should have, not Robb being forced to take over as king, not Sansa being engaged to that _wretched_ bastard boy—and now her three younger children were missing, or dead. And her Ned, her sweet Ned, he was gone too.

None of it should have happened.

_It was going south. No Stark belongs in the south._

But south was exactly where Sansa was to go as soon as this war came to an end, and it was already nearing the end. The False King had fallen, the south was in anarchy. Lannisters were dying and the Martells seemed particularly careful not to be caught in any alliance but with the Starks, who held no power in the south anyways. Whispers of Doran Martell’s sons venturing east reached her ears in nervous, twittering voices.

What business did the heirs of Dorne have in Essos anyways?

If Robb questioned it as much as Catelyn did, he kept those thoughts away from her ears. She didn’t begrudge her son keeping his mind to himself. She had her own private thoughts, after all.

Husband of her daughter or not, Oberyn had rescued her when no one else was able, and for that Catelyn could only be grateful. _Outwardly_ , that is.

She kept her other thoughts strictly to herself. Even when Robb stormed in, raging about a man older than their father wedding his younger sister—she had held her tongue.

But the thought of sending Sansa south again, even if it was in the _distant_ future, was nearly enough to make Catelyn weep and beg Oberyn Martell not to take her from him. Did he not keep a good number of lovers in Dorne? Did he not keep a _paramour_ who carried all his bastards for him anymore? Catelyn hadn’t bothered to learn the woman’s name, but she knew she existed all the same. What did he need Sansa for anyways?

But Sansa was _married_ to him! _Gods,_ how could fate be so cruel? Wedded and bedded and married to a man with no fewer than eight daughters, all bastards, and more lovers than Robert Baratheon and Walder Frey combined. She had asked Sansa about it a few times, in tactful, considerate words, but Sansa was stiff-lipped about the matter.

“I will be a good wife and do my duty by my lord husband.”

Gods. What a mess.

They ate in peace for the rest of the morning, with Jeyne and her mother making friendly, pointless conversation. Catelyn tried not to envision the amount of ~~more important~~ tasks she could be accomplishing instead. And all the while, Sansa picked at her plate, chewed in silence, and smiled when appropriate.

But though she sat still and calm for the duration of their meal, Catelyn watched the skin of Sansa’s flushed face and neck remain red, watched her chest rise and fall and her teeth gently bite down on her lower lip whenever she fell out of conversation for too long, staring blankly at her plate.

“Sansa?” Catelyn leaned in and placed a careful hand on her daughter’s wrist. “Are you well?”

She looked up at her mother, startled, eyes wide with confusion. “Of course! Forgive me, I just… I feel rather out of sorts. I believe I overslept.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Jeyne leaned in with an understanding smile, and began to ramble on about how like-minded the two girls were. In truth, Catelyn had never met a woman less like her daughter than Jeyne Westerling. Or _Stark,_ as her son now insists.

It doesn’t matter what name she takes. That woman will always be a southron woman—Catelyn would know.

As Jeyne talked on and her mother scolded her for being so free in her words, Catelyn took the time to study Sansa’s complexion further. Now that she looked harder, she _saw_ things, things no one else would bother to take the time to find.

Like the way Sansa’s fingers constantly traced her own skin, winding invisible maps over her veins, as though reimagining a route explored by other hands. Like the way she smiled ever so faintly when she thought no one was looking. Like the way she stared out the window in the direction of the training yard below.

Like the fading bloom of purple flower petals in her pale skin, tucked carefully under Sansa’s ear.

Catelyn’s heart stuttered and stopped without pause, nothing but white noise filling the sounds in her ears. It was all so familiar to her, this young red-haired woman sitting and dining on such a lovely morning. It was so familiar, not like an old image, but like an old memory.

And it all became clear to her in a matter of seconds.

 _It was her._ When Catelyn looked at Sansa, it was herself she saw in the dark green morning dress. It was herself she saw in the subtly pleased smile, herself she saw in the improperly late arrival to breakfast.

A far-off memory came to mind without her trying to find it, the memory of a still-new Lady sitting at the table in the Great Hall of Winterfell, laughing at the most bland of jokes and smiling at every little thing the Lord of the House— _her husband—_ said. Gods, it was so long ago—sometime after she had accepted Ned back into her bed, after _Jon Snow_ came to their home. And Ned had been so sorry, so deeply apologetic, so eager to make it up to her. They had gotten terribly inebriated, drunk off of northern wine and new pangs of love, and Ned had asked if he could give her another child.

_Let me love you, Cat. The way you deserve. I’ve only ever loved you, lovely girl. Only ever wanted you. Only you._

And she said yes. And they spent the whole evening tumbling off the featherbed, onto the thick bear fur on the floor, against the trunk full of her gowns, propped up by the windowsill overlooking the empty courtyard. And in the morning, they came down later for breakfast, too happy to care.

And then…well… And then Sansa was born nine months later.

 _But it couldn’t be._ Catelyn reminded herself of the hushed conversation she’d had with her daughter, what, four months ago?

“I haven’t… Oberyn and I have not… _shared_ each other, since my wedding.” Sansa had confessed it with a blush red enough to rival her own hair color, and though it was awkward and unseemly for a mother and daughter to discuss, Catelyn had been too relieved to feel discomfort.

Now, though, a year after her daughter had been wed to the Prince of Dorne…. Now she wasn’t so sure.

The breakfast finished in a slow, winding sort of fashion, with the ladies saying goodbye and thank you and then spending another fifteen minutes complimenting one another. Sometimes it was very tiring being a Lady.

They had only just made their way to the door when it opened without warning, and a smiling Blackfish strode through. Her uncle, beloved and dear, was particularly upbeat this morning, and Catelyn wondered if there might be something in the water causing them all to lose their senses.

“Good morning, nieces. Your Grace. My lady.” He nodded to the women in turn, all smiling back at him with varying degrees of happiness.

Sansa, Catelyn saw in her peripheral, was standing towards the back, hands laced in front of her, gazing intermittently between the window overlooking the yard, and the uncle of her mother.

“Uncle,” greeted Cat with some surprise. “I thought you might be training this morning.”

“And I thought you might be down there watching!” he laughed, grey whiskers curling on his mouth. “Didn’t think you would want to miss your King making a fool of himself!”

Jeyne gasped, and Catelyn’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “Whatever the King has done, Uncle, I don’t believe it warrants such unfavorable language.”

Brynden interrupted with a roll of his eyes. “Your _King_ has challenged his good-brother to a spar.”

Only decades of mastering ladylike behavior spared Catelyn the embarrassment of her jaw dropping to the floor, and even still her lips did part with a tiny pop of shock. Maybe there truly was something in the water...

Everyone turned on their heels to look at Sansa, almost reflexively, who seemingly didn’t understand what was said for several seconds. And then—

_“He did what?”_

And then, before Brynden Tully could answer either way, she was hitching up the hem of her skirts and dashing out of the room, her mother close on her heels.

Sansa and Catelyn strode briskly down the halls for several minutes, unfollowed it would seem, before Catelyn spoke up, trying not to pant.

“It will be…a good…learning experience…I suppose.”

Sansa’s tense mouth didn’t falter. “Robb is too proud to concede defeat.” They rounded the last corner sharply, and came to the doors of the courtyard. “Oberyn will beat him black and blue before he relents.” She was so factual about her assessment, it was very difficult to argue with her.

“He won’t actually wound Robb, though.” Catelyn looked at the profile of her daughter’s fine face, saw the purple bruise under her daughter’s jaw and soured at the sight of it. “He can’t.”

“Well, Mother, that’s the thing.” Sansa sighed, leading her to the crowd of young men and giggling ladies cheering at the fences, obscuring the two men fighting from their view.

“He _can.”_

* * *

 

The fight was both short and predictable. Brynden and Jeyne had joined them for the tail end of it, and in truth Catelyn wishes she had seen the same.

Robb was utterly and totally decimated.

But Oberyn was a good teacher, and stayed level-headed throughout the ordeal, despite the rowdiness of their audience. Many of the men cheered wildly for their king at first, until they saw how unskilled he was compared to the Red Viper, at which point they stopped cheering and began grumbling, wincing, muttering oaths once in a while. Catelyn had watched from between her fingers, palms cupped to her cheeks. Sansa had watched it in silence, hands folded calmly in front of her, gaze fixated on the leaping, twisting images of her brother and her husband, battling for the upperhand.

Catelyn could make out a good deal of what was being said, the advice that Oberyn gave her son, and she quickly realized it was less a spar and more a lesson.

Her fear turned into fast relief, and maybe even gratitude.

“You glance at me wherever you plan to strike next. This is very foolish.” Oberyn batted away the next two strikes of Robb’s sword with little more than a flick of his spearhead.

“Don’t dodge a foot away when an inch will do. You’ll only tire easier.”

Oberyn’s spear struck suddenly, and caught Robb on the wrist unused. Uncaringly, her son continued fighting, but Oberyn made a tutting noise.

“If I had struck any lower, you would have bled your lifeblood by now.”

Robb didn’t respond vocally, but took care to tuck his arms closer to his side.

It ended—at last—when Oberyn had apparently decided he’d had enough, and with one sweeping motion, he knocked the King in the North on his backside, and lowered the head of his spear to Robb’s jugular.

“Yield.”

Robb did just that.

Brynden Tully made a sound torn between amusement and pity, and began shooing the crowd before either man had even left the ring. “Don’t you lot have jobs to do?” he bellowed, and they scurried accordingly, under the threat of the Blackfish’s wrath.

“Robb’s a good lad, Cat. He’ll be fine. Only his pride’s hurt, that’s all.” Her uncle grinned and patted her hand kindly, before taking off to presumably commence with his own duties. Jeyne moved quickly to her husband’s side, the young man who was walking with a tall, proud spine but a rather sheepish droop of his shoulders. She took his arm, and together they walked in the direction of the woods, Greywind trotting a distance after them.

It wasn’t until they vanished from sight that Catelyn realized she had been left alone, save for Brienne.

“Shall I escort you to the castle, my lady?”

Catelyn smiled politely at the fierce woman and shook her head. “No, thank you, Brienne. I believe a bit of air might do me good.” _Might do us all good._

She watched the great form of her sworn shield disappear as well, until she was well and truly alone. The yard was oddly calm now, a soothing place where Catelyn might drag her feet and think for a few minutes of respite.

That was, of course, until she heard the low chatter of a prince around the corner of the armory.

“—worried you might be unhappy with me, agreeing to fight him.”

“No.” A sigh. “I wish you had maybe told me what you were doing, but I am not angry.”

Catelyn, as curious as any mother with a new good-son to deal with, crept close to the wall of the armory, and dared to poke just the corner of her eye around the edge to peak at the couple standing hand in hand, staring out at the cold sun.

Oberyn’s back was mostly to Catelyn, but she could see most of Sansa’s face. Her daughter was unusually…calm. Serene. Absurdly content with her hand entwined in the fist of the Red Viper’s.

“Your brother was irritated, fidgety. A wolf trapped in a cage, waiting for all this”—Oberyn waved an airy hand through the air—“political nonsense to go away. A sentiment I share whole-heartedly.” He turned to Sansa suddenly, his face grave. “It may surprise you to know this, Princess, but I am not a patient man.”

To Catelyn’s eternal surprise, Sansa dared to crack a dry smile at her husband. “Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

Oberyn made an outraged sound and released her hand, leapt around to face her with a bold finger raised in the air, pointed at her. “Are you mocking me? I’ll have you know, wife, I won’t stand for being mocked.”

“ _Mocking_ you? No, never! Teasing?” Sansa grinned coquettishly from under her lashes, blushed and looked away. “Mayhap a little…”

“Teasing your Lord Husband?” Oberyn chided her, and received a gentle swat on the arm for it, the tiniest of smiles creeping up on Sansa’s beautiful face. Ever since Oberyn had brought her back to the north, Sansa’s beauty had been that of a sad sort, a tragic sort, and Catelyn thought it would be that way forever.

But here she was, _playing_ with her husband, poking at his ribs and teasing his poor patience, and Catelyn thought it might be a happy beauty in the end, after all.

“What will you do now, the rest of the day?” Sansa asked, stepping closer to him still. He didn’t speak, but looked down on her and wiggled his eyebrows alluringly, the jest as plain to read from across the courtyard as it was standing in front of him.

“None of that,” said Sansa with a sharp bite. “I was late for breakfast because of you, you know. No doubt, my mother will have her share of questions to ask.”

“And you would blame me for that?” Oberyn made an affronted sound. “I don’t recall _forcing_ you to stay in bed this morning, wrapped up under the sheets—”

Sansa squealed loudly as he wrapped her in his arms, hushing him urgently. “Oberyn, stop! Someone could hear you!”

Catelyn ducked just in time, as Oberyn’s eyes scoured the empty land around them.

 _“Who? The chickens in the barn?”_ He laughed, and Catelyn dared to take another look at them. Sansa had not removed herself from his hold entirely, but did stand an arm’s length away, his hands curled gently over her hips.

“Didn’t you say something about catching up on your letters today?” Sansa tilted her head at him, and her husband groaned loudly like a boy.

“Gods, I don’t wish to spend the afternoon writing. Not again.” He made a sound of immense disgust. “My family knows I’m in your family’s house. That’s good enough, surely?”

Sansa frowned at him now, truly unimpressed. “What about Ellaria? You’ve neglected her letter for so long now—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Neglect is such a strong word, little wife.” Oberyn huffed loudly, and released her with a flourish. “Besides, writing Ellaria is so tiring anymore. Ever since she met you, all she wants to do is know how you are doing. The sort of woman you’ve become.”

“My letters to her aren’t enough to tell her?” Sansa asked through a deep red flush and a timid smile.

“Don’t jape. Your letters aren’t enough to do anything but report the facts and pleasantries. There’s nothing fun for Ellaria in that. No, she wants to know _you._ How you wear your hair, what you smell like, how the men respond to you. Where you like to be _kissed_.”

Catelyn, blushing heavily herself, slowly clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with shock and a touch of dismay. This…was not the marriage she’d envisioned for her daughter.

And it was not how she thought Sansa would find happiness, either.

“Oh?”

Oberyn made a long-suffering noise. “Yes. My lover has become infatuated with my wife, and my wife loves my paramour. I shall have to spend the rest of my life admiring the beauty of two fiery, passionate women from afar.”

“From afar?!” Sansa laughed loudly. “We’ll be living in _your home._ ” The sound of her laughter sent a wave of excitement through Catelyn’s veins. How long was it since she last heard her daughter laugh, since she had last seen her smile like this? Too long. Far too long.

“And I will be nothing but the cock to you two. I know how it is.”

“Oberyn!” But she was still laughing. “You’re being very wicked.”

He hummed considerately. “Perhaps. You bring it out in me, darling wolf.”

“Hmm…” Sansa reached out and took the folds of the neck of his sweaty tunic in hand, tugged him closer with careful movements. “What else does Ellaria write about?”

“Just you,” he murmured back to her. Catelyn had to strain to hear. “It’s all we talk about.”

“Oh.” Sansa’s smile was so very pleased, like the cat that swallowed the canary whole.

“And…” Oberyn faltered momentarily. “She asks…if we will bring back a child with us, when we return.”

Sansa’s eyes were no longer skittish, but fixated, focused on his. They were not touching, but something in their bodies angled towards each other, turning inward, closing off from the world.

“She asked me as well.” Sansa swallowed heavily, smoothed her skirts with shaking hands. “I didn’t tell her.”

“Nor I.” He took two steps forward, and cupped her jaw in his weathered hands. Catelyn imagined his thumb cradled the exact spot his mark was, and wondered if he did it on purpose.

Their heads bent very close together, nose to nose, and over the crunch of gravel sliding slowly under their feet, Catelyn heard him whisper her name. “Sansa?”

And her daughter, the woman who was a lady at three, took his warm face in her own hands, and stretched up to kiss him tenderly, with a sort of care that made Catelyn breathless.

“Oberyn.” Sansa glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the barn, where there were cows and chickens. And plenty of haystacks to hide in. “I don’t suppose the chickens would tell anyone?”

He gave a whoop of laughter, scooped her up between fast, furious kisses, and began marching in the direction of the barn.

And Catelyn left them then, turned away with wringing hands and a bowed head, deep in thought. The sound of her daughter’s laughter echoed over the courtyard, a sound she had missed almost as much as she missed her husband, headed into a barn to—to—

_Gods._

The similarities to her's and Sansa’s marriage were numerous. And though their husbands were different, perhaps the love was the same.

Catelyn quietly took a large measure of comfort in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. 
> 
> Reviews are like candy for me!
> 
> I hope you're all having a marvellous day. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Miss M.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, shout out to Silberias, and to all other writers of the Sansa/Oberyn ship. I wanted to tell you that you're all adorable and I love you. 
> 
> (Also, Pedro Pascal makes me very happy. That's all. I just wanted to share that with you. It's very important information to have).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope life's treating you well!
> 
> Ciao for now, my lovelies!
> 
> Miss M.


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